


and puppy dog tails

by puppyblue



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Transformation, CyberLife Are Dicks, Fluff, Gen, Hank Loves Dogs, Harm to Animals, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Indulgent, Timeline What Timeline, but not really, he just can't help himself, honestly not that much plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 06:20:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15657513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppyblue/pseuds/puppyblue
Summary: Connor, the (temporarily) literal bloodhound, and Hank, who is absolutely not smitten, no siree.





	1. no questions

It is not Connor’s place to ask questions.

Usually, he does not feel the need. He has his orders, and he follows them, and CyberLife’s reasoning is not for him to know. But in _this_ instance, their decisions are affecting his ability to complete his orders and this causes him...confusion. He certainly will not _question,_ but he registers quietly that these circumstances will reduce his overall effectiveness by 22% at a minimum.

It seems he is not the only one confused.

“What the fuck?” An officer— _Jensen, Riley; born 07/09/2002; criminal record: none—_ blinks down at him when he presents himself at the crime scene. In this context, he believes the expression is being used to convey disbelief or perplexity, rather than the multitude of other meanings that apply. “Hey, Ben! Did you know about this?”

The next man— _Collins, Ben; 09/12/1989; criminal record: none—_ appears just as befuddled, even when Connor sends the customary greeting, his credentials, and the reason for his presence to the man’s standard-issue tablet. “I heard CyberLife was sending an android. Apparently it’s procedure these days. But no one said anything about a dog.”

Connor sits at attention, paws together and his tail tucked carefully in. He does not explain that this model is a previous prototype in the line developed to assist police in their investigations, or that his software, though it was developed for the humanoid form he tested months before, is flexible enough to adapt to the majority of android models.

Lack of direct speech is one of the many issues with this older model. Also, more importantly, the information has no bearing on the investigation at hand. And no one has told Connor _why_.

“Well, if you’re looking for Hank, he’s not here yet,” Detective Collins says. He seems uncertain about addressing Connor directly, glancing between him and Officer Jensen. Another issue—while the canine form usually excels at putting humans at ease, it hinders most forms of collaborative communication. “Can’t tell you when he’ll be in, either. He’s...not really the sort to stick to a timetable.”

“—mean he’s probably at the nearest bar getting wasted,” Officer Jensen mutters, and though Detective Collins bristles at that statement, he also doesn’t correct it. That hardly seems like professional conduct for a police lieutenant, but the habit is well-established if his colleagues are both aware and unsurprised. Connor files the information away.

“You can wait here, if you like. He’ll be along eventually,” Detective Collins says, waving at the porch of the house containing the scene as he turns away. “Busy enough in there you’d just be underfoot right now, anyway.”

Connor considers this course of action, but between the information he gleaned from the conversation and the choice of words used— _eventually: in the end, especially after a long delay, dispute, or series of problems—_ it is likely that simply waiting for Lieutenant Anderson will delay his investigation by several hours at best. Unacceptable.

_‘—probably at the nearest bar—’_

_Calculating Route…_

He sets the police precinct as his base point after a moment of thought and sets off, assigning a search route in his head as he moves. It will take some time to travel back from the crime scene, but—based on the scant information he has at hand—he is still likely to achieve his goal approximately 30% faster than if he waits.

Besides, one of the benefits of this model is its superior speed while travelling on foot. He might as well use it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, last new post and then I absolutely gotta finish some of my old ones. And I will. Cross my heart.  
> Animals are apparently my thing now, god knows why...


	2. many regrets

“Hank,” Jimmy says to him, pausing in the middle of drying a glass. “That thing yours?”

Hank’s not in the mood for talking. He rarely is, not when he comes here, but Jimmy’s pretty good about not bothering him outside of refills, so he reluctantly pays attention, following the man’s gaze.

Someone’s let a dog into the bar.

It’s a goofy looking thing, long and leggy with loose folds of skin and bright brown eyes. He can see why Jimmy asked him, too; the dog’s staring straight at him, and as soon as Hank meets its eyes it comes up directly beside his stool and sits. And Hank’s been building a pretty good wallow, but he can feel the faintest beginning of a smile starting to break through regardless.

Fucking dogs.

“Definitely not mine,” he says, ignoring the chime of an incoming message on his phone in favor of bending and ruffling the dog’s floppy ears. It's got shorter fur than Sumo. Softer too.  “You’d know it if my dog was—”

Something cold and hard slides against his fingers and he pulls his hand back, surprised. There’s...a fucking _LED_ on the side of its head, a circling golden yellow that he hadn’t noticed immediately against the brown fur. He recoils without even thinking about it. “What the _fuck?”_

And now he sees the collar, sleek black leather cinched close around its neck with the requisite blue triangle highlighted on the side and ‘ANDROID’ stitched in silver. Should have been a warning, but between the loose folds of skin around the thing’s neck and shoulders, and the few glasses he’s already had, Hank hadn’t caught it right off.

“Sure seems to like you, man,” Jimmy says doubtfully. Hank snorts, but he can’t stop staring at the thing now. Who would buy an android _dog_ , when you could have the real, flesh-and-blood thing, something that actually _needed_ a home? People these days. Christ.

“Get out of here,” he tells it. His skin is itching a little just thinking about it now. “Go find your owner.”

Androids are supposed to follow direct orders, he knows that, and he figures android dogs would have to have ways to keep them from wandering too far off. This one doesn’t even get up, though—it just pins its floppy ears back and stares at him some more. His phone beeps again.

“Look, Hank, I can’t have that in here.” Jimmy doesn’t falter at all when Hank turns to glare. “Androids _or_ dogs; it’s right on the door, even. Just get it out of here, man—it’ll probably follow you.”

“It’s not my fucking dog,” Hank protests, but the thing is _still_ staring at him, unblinking, like some creepy fucking doll. He sighs and downs the rest of his glass.

“Fine,” he grumbles, mostly to himself, since Jimmy’s already turned back to his drying. He slides off the stool—mostly steady—and clicks his fingers at it. “Come on, then.”

 _Now_ it listens—it stands up immediately and follows in his footsteps, the sort of perfect heel that Sumo never took to even with classes. That makes his lip curl and he kind of wants to shove it away, but...well, it still looks like a dog. Even if it’s a plastic one, he can’t really bring himself to kick it.

The cold air outside is a sharp slap to the face after the comfortable bar—he hunches his shoulders and turns to glare down at the thing, pointing one arm down the street. “Seriously, _git_. Retrace your fucking steps or something; aren’t you made for that sorta shit?”

The dog makes a noise then, a warble of sound that’s too loud for a sigh and too loose for a bark. Then it sits, right in front of the door to the bar—he’s not getting around it easily.

Hank’s genuinely reconsidering his stance on kicking when his phone beeps _again._ And...he just figured it was Fowler, nagging him about some new and no doubt oh-so-important case, but as the dog continues to stare, LED still circling…

Hank pulls his phone out slowly, a bit incredulous at the thought. And there _are_ a few messages from Fowler, but the newest ones are from an unknown number, one that doesn’t really look like a normal phone number at second glance. More like...a serial number.

 _Lieutenant Anderson,_ reads the first text. _My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife._

Definitely _not_ normal, what the _hell—_

 _You were assigned a case earlier this evening,_ the message continues. _A homicide, involving a CyberLife android. In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators—_

He jerks his head back up to stare at it—its LED is a soft, clear blue now and it blinks placidly back, apparently patient enough now that it has his attention.

“Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me,” Hank spits, though he’s mostly still stuck in a cycle of _what the fuck._ He points at it and it tilts its head, as though interested. “No, absolutely not! There is no fucking way—!”

 

* * *

 

“Ah, it found you, huh?” Ben says as they walk up, with just enough amusement in his voice that the sympathetic look is ruined. “Wondered where it ran off to.”

“Did you send this fucking thing after me?” Hank demands, because Ben _would,_ just to laugh later at the look on his face. At least he’ll never know that Hank let himself be _bullied_ into coming by a goddamn _dog._ An android dog at that.

It’s back on his heels now, falsely obedient as though it hadn’t practically herded him here. It’d been almost underhanded, blocking his way to the bar and pitching a fuss with throaty noises like drawn-out barks, cutting into his protests and drawing attention to them until he’d finally given in.

He’d thought about locking it in the car in revenge, but it’d already proven that it wouldn’t follow orders automatically. He suspects he’d come back to savaged upholstery at best. Hell, it’d probably find a way out of the car, anyway; the unlock button isn’t difficult, and it isn’t exactly a normal dog.

 _“I_ told it to wait here.” Ben shrugs and turns back to the house, away from the calls of the growing crowd of press behind the police line. “But it’s not one of ours—maybe it’ll only listen to you, if it’s your case.”

 _Like hell._ Hank snorts to himself, but doesn’t argue the point. He does, however, take a moment to point a finger right at the dog’s wiggling nose. “You don’t touch anything, got it? And you stay outta the way _._ ”

Its ears perk up and its head tilts—it heard him, clearly enough, but that seems to be the only answer he’s getting out of it. He scoffs again and follows Ben inside. “What’ve we got?”

What they’ve _got_ is another goddamn junkie. That’s not what Hank is supposed to say, and he’s not stupid enough to put it in his reports, but he sees the messy arrangement of red ice, already marked as evidence, and he _knows._ At least it’s the user dead this time, and not the girlfriend or kid or whoever got in the way when the drug sent them violent and raving. Even if it _was_ an android that killed him, Hank can’t muster up too much sympathy.

 _God_ , he hates this shit.

So he’s pretty sure he’s got the gist of it right off, though he pokes around the scene despite himself—even after everything, he fits his job, always has, and he always wants to know _more,_ to dig a little deeper. And as he moves across the living room to peer at the evidence, he sees the dog doing the same, padding towards the corpse once the officers around it clear.  

Part of that itches at his deep-set training—a scene with a loose animal is _not_ a safe one—but if anything should be able to follow proper procedure, it’s a fucking android. It stops to examine the corpse with the sort of intent stare that Sumo usually saves for squeaky toys and Hank forces his scowl back into place, crossing his arms.

Then it rears up against the wall to _lick_ at the writing and _jesus fucking christ—_

 _“Hey!”_ He barks at it, almost stumbling in his haste. “The fuck are you—? _No. Bad dog.”_

It just twists its head around and _looks_ at him, and _right,_ not an actual dog. He abruptly feels just a little bit like a idiot. His phone beeps again—god, this is going to get old pretty damn fast, he can already fucking tell—and then Chris makes a noise of surprise across the room.

“Uh,” the kid says, “looks like that _is_ written in the victim’s blood, sir.”

 _I can check samples in real time,_ is the explanation when Hank checks his phone, and apparently it’s been programmed to nag too, because it adds: _Your phone does not have the required specifications to view certain files, Lieutenant. You should carry your issued tablet, so that I can pass along any useful results._

Cute. There’s a _reason_ he doesn’t carry one—he keeps fucking breaking them. Chris stops by to show Hank his instead, expression somewhere between bewildered and intrigued, and yeah, that looks a hell of a lot like a proper lab report. Still. Who the fuck decided it should read this shit with its _mouth?_

It goes back to its slow observation, moving steadily throughout the room. But he’s keeping a closer eye on it now—god fucking help him if it swallows the drugs or some shit. He’s leaving this whole thing to Ben if it comes to that.  
  
It doesn’t seem likely to, thankfully. Either the thing’s taken his words to heart or, more likely, it just doesn’t feel the need to sample anything else, because the tongue stays properly away while he’s watching. It unerringly finds each of their evidence markers and gives each that intent stare, winding from the living room to the kitchen, but that’s the extent of its investigations. It stares at a few spots that _aren’t_ marked as well, like a bit of exposed drywall, but Hank doesn’t figure it’s anything to worry about.  
  
He does raise a brow when it lets itself outside, two paws springing with precise placement to the knob of the back door. Thank god Sumo never learned that trick.  
  
By the time he wanders over to check on it, though, it’s returned, scooting back inside and letting the door bounce shut behind it. It sees him standing there and backpedals a tiny bit, plopping its butt to the ground at his feet and staring up at him with ears perked a bit. He feels a smile trying to twitch again and fucking _smothers_ it.  
  
“What?” He demands, and the ears flatten back down, eyes blinking as though he’s surprised it. Then it lets out a noise that he would have to describe as a grumble, slipping back up to its feet and trotting back into the living room.  
  
He stares after it, frowning. What the hell?  
  
He doesn’t have to actually follow it, though—another few moments and it rounds the corner again. Its head is down now, nose almost flat to the floor and floppy ears nearly covering its eyes. He snorts to himself, amused at the loud snuffles; it looks faintly ridiculous too, in a dog’s unselfconscious manner.

Looks a bit familiar, actually. _Bloodhound_ , he finally places for the breed—or at least that’s what it’s meant to imitate. It’s one of the dogs he researched briefly, during his search for the right puppy. He’d ruled it out in the end, since by all accounts they’d be a bit too energetic for a child Cole’s age—

The whiskey in his stomach turns to acid and he swallows back against it, what very little enthusiasm he’d managed to dredge up for the case dying away immediately. He folds his arms across his chest and stares at the wall, calculating how much longer he’ll need to stand here until Fowler won’t be able to protest him leaving. His phone beeps again, but he ignores it; he doesn’t fucking care, whatever it is.

And he’s content enough to wait it out, uninterested in digging any further into this pretty pointless case, until a burst of full-throated _noise_ shatters the general quiet of the hallway. It’s an unexpected, undulating yowl and he jerks in surprise, knocking his head into the wall behind him.

He winces, rubbing at the back of his head with a hiss as he turns one incredulous eye down the hallway. It’s the fucking android again—CyberLife has clearly sent him a god-damned demon, what the _actual fuck—_ watching him from the dead end by the bathroom. Something’s changed, though; it’s...animated, dancing a little as though it desperately wants to chase something, front paws almost kneading against the wooden floor in its earnestness.

When he doesn’t move immediately it rolls its head back, baying again at the ceiling above its head. It’s not a small creature and the noise it generates is quite enough to draw the attention of the rest of the house. Chris sticks his head in from the living room even as the forensics team starts to mutter, and Hank snarls to himself, stomping over to join it.

 _“What?”_ He demands, because clearly the only way to make it shut up is to indulge it. It _wuffs_ at him, finally quieting, but apparently no less excited for it. It turns back up to stare at the ceiling and he follows its eyes—there’s an entrance to the attic there, the usual trapdoor sort of setup.

Whoa, hang on a minute. Is it saying—?

 _There’s a trail of thirium leading to the attic, Lieutenant,_ his phone informs him, and the dog circles once around his feet as though to punctuate it.

“The fuck is thirium?” He demands, turning wary eyes back to the ceiling— _blue blood_ , apparently, and that’s when he finally makes the connection to Ortiz’s missing android.

“Aw, hold on,” he protests, “it’s been _weeks_ since Ortiz bit it. The android might’a hid up there for awhile, but there’s no way it’s still just waiting around.”

The dog blinks at him, head tilting just slightly to the side.

 _I found thirium leading to the attic,_ the next message says, _but there is no trail leading away._

Well. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it? The droid probably just hid in the attic to fix itself up, so it wouldn’t have been dripping blue blood when it came down again.

It’s been _weeks._

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?” Chris asks him, watching them both, wide-eyed, from the kitchen. Hank looks at him, looks at the trapdoor, and then frowns down at the android. It sits, as though belatedly remembering its manners, but were it an actual dog, he would have called it imploring. Clearly, had it been capable of going without him, it would have already gone up.

“Grab me that spare chair from the kitchen, Chris,” he sighs, giving in. A quick look can’t hurt either, and he’s got time to burn. “And then come follow me up. Just wanna check on something real quick.”

Because if there’s a chance—even the slightest chance—that the dog is right, then like fuck is he doing this alone.

 

* * *

 

In other words, the dog pretty much closes the whole damn case for them.

They get the deviant down from the attic—fun for everyone involved, but not as dangerous as it might have been. The thing mostly just flails and whimpers a bit, seemingly confused and more than a little damaged. Hank would have felt sorry for it if it wasn’t, well...an android.

Chris gets the fun of transporting it to the station, though Hank’s going to be right behind him. The evidence is pretty damning, especially with all the scans that the dog’s apparently sent along, but they still need to get some sort of confession out of it, and Hank has no idea how well that’s going to go. He’s never had to interrogate an android before.

The dog follows after the deviant with a hunter’s single-mindedness, but once Chris drives off it returns to him, setting itself back at his side. Hank debates with himself for a long minute, but there’s really no denying that if this android hadn’t been here, they’d probably never have caught the deviant at all. Just another cold case in a long pile of them.

So when they get into his car, headed for the station, Hank glances over at its perfect posture in his passenger seat and says, “You did good in there.”

It’s a little weird to just be talking to it when it feels like he should be rubbing its ears or something, but the LED still gives him a little bit of the heebie-jeebies and the thing speaks in full sentences when it need to communicate. Words probably make more sense to it anyway.

The dog turns to him, ears raising and eyes widening like it’s perking up. Or maybe he just surprised it—that seems just as likely too. But it’s like his brain is on some kind of dog-related autopilot after living with Sumo for so long and so he instinctively adds, “Good boy.”

And _that_ was not what he meant to say, and he’s about to regret even thinking it when the dog’s tail wags. It’s a slight thing, a few faint thumps against the leather of his seats, but it’s the first time he’s actually seen it wag at _all_ , and something about that is...mollifying. And maybe a little bit sad.

He turns the radio back up high, turns it down a second later to the level he plays when Sumo is in the car, and then scowls at the radio and resolves not to think about androids of any kind until they get back to the precinct.

He really doesn’t have much of a choice there because, as it turns out, not only is it pretty damn near impossible to interrogate a deviant android, but the only reason they get anything out of it at all is because the dog handles _that_ as well. Reed near on throws a fit when it plants itself at the door to the interrogation room and barks, but Hank’s had no luck, they’d all _just_ got the text warning about self-destruction, and the dog’s already proven itself, at least a little. He’s willing to see where it goes.

Worth it—not only is Reed’s face through the whole process a picture to remember, but they also get the confession. (Hank doesn’t really understand what happens there; the androids face off for a few minutes, the dog’s nose pressed up against the deviant’s arm and then suddenly Ortiz’s android is speaking out loud, stuttering through the whole sordid story. For once, he regrets not knowing enough about androids to pick up on the process in the middle.)

All right, fine, maybe he is a tiny bit impressed by now, with the results it keeps turning in. So when the dog takes exception to Reed ignoring the warnings and fucking shit up, and then Reed fucking _draws_ _on it..._ well. Hank steps in before he even really thinks it through and things get a little bit _heated_.

He has no doubt he’ll be hearing from Fowler about it, but whatever. He owes the whole case to this fucking android; fine example of a reward for good work if it gets shot. And it can’t even tell Reed to fuck off except by text, so he’ll take the fall for this one.

It doesn’t mean anything, though. The android is helping because that’s what it has been programmed to do and Hank had stepped in because that’s the closest thing _he_ has to programming—getting in the face of some feckless asshole who has no trouble pointing a gun at a dog.

Or...something that _looks_ like a dog.

Shit. Well, that still says things about Reed, and none of them are good.

The _point_ being, Hank has done his good deed for the night. So when he finally makes it out into the lobby—it’s 3am now, fuck this shit, he’s most definitely sleeping in tomorrow—and sees the dog sitting patiently outside the doors, still as a fucking statue, it should be the easiest part of his night to just keep on walking right past it.

Hank glowers at the dog, turns his gaze to the still-falling rain, and then glances back down. It doesn’t look as though the wet and the cold bother it, for all that it’s literally dripping water from its coat. But it also doesn’t look like it plans on moving at _all_. Like it’s just going to sit there all night, guarding the door and waiting for someone to come back for it in the morning.

Hank stops. God fucking damn it.

He rechecks the texts quickly, then sets his shoulders and walks out to join it. “So...Connor, right?”

It fixes its gaze on him immediately, attentive, and he makes a mental note. Maybe using its name directly will make it more responsive.

 _His_ name? It is a male name, probably for a reason. But does that really matter with androids?

He pushes back the thick, reluctant awkwardness that threatens to strangle his words and bulls on ahead. He'd fucking started this, so he’s gonna see it through. “Well, come on. You can’t stay here—one of the night shifters will probably call animal control or something.”

He takes two steps, hoping that will be enough, but while the dog’s head raises and tilts, it doesn’t move to follow him. He huffs a breath through his nose, regretting everything. “Look, you got somewhere you’re supposed to be, then be my guest. Or, you can come home with me and I’ll bring you back in the morning. But don’t just _sit_ here in the rain like a fucking gargoyle.”

He’s about to give up on this impulsive, absolutely terrible idea—it isn’t a station android, his tired brain remembers, so maybe it really does need to be somewhere else, and what does it really _matter_ if an android gets a bit wet anyway—when the dog finally stands up. It takes a few careful steps and settles back into the same position at his heels, eyes still fixed on his face as though waiting for him to tell it off.

Well, there goes his escape. He stifles a sigh and tightens his coat around himself. “Great. Now let’s get a fucking move on.”

He sets off into the rain and it follows behind him as though it had never hesitated. Its wet fur is bristling up in a way that spells trouble for his car seats and that damn LED is circling a bright, blaring yellow in the darkness of the morning. It is very much an android, and his stupid goddamn brain still wants to reach over and pet it.

Fuck. He’s absolutely going to regret this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, please tell me any mistakes you see. Constructive criticism is also appreciated.


End file.
